He followed Polman into her stall to see her saddled. In the twilight there he watched her toilet; the rub-over; the exact adjustments; the bottle of water to the mouth; the buckling of the bridle—watched her head high above the boy keeping her steady with gentle pulls of a rein in each hand held out a little wide, and now and then stroking her blazed nose; watched her pretence of nipping at his hand: he watched the beauty of her exaggerated in this half-lit isolation away from the others, the life and litheness in her satin body, the wilful expectancy in her bright soft eyes.
Run a bye! This bit o’ blood—this bit o’ fire! This horse of his! Deep within that shell of blue box-cloth against the stall partition a thought declared itself: ‘I’m —— if she shall! She can beat the lot! And she’s —— well going to!’
The door was thrown open, and she led out. He moved alongside. They were staring at her, following her. No wonder! She was a picture, his horse—his! She had gone to ‘Jimmy’s’ head.
They passed Jenning with Diamond Stud waiting to be mounted. ‘Jimmy’ shot him a look. Let the —— wait!
His mare reached the palings and was halted. ‘Jimmy’ saw the short square figure of her jockey, in the new magenta cap and jacket—his cap, his jacket! Beautiful they looked, and no mistake!
“A word with you,” he said.
The jockey halted, looked quickly round.
“All right, Mr. Shrewin. No need.”
‘Jimmy’s’ eyes smouldered at him; hardly moving his lips, he said, intently: “You —— well don’t! You’ll —— well ride her to win. Never mind him! If you don’t, I’ll have you off the Turf. Understand me! You’ll —— well ride ’er to win.”